Feelings frustrate me.
When I have them, I'm sad.
When they leave me, I'm numb.
Most of the time, I hover just between the two,
in sight of my sadness but just far enough away
to feel nothing.

I stare at the guitar resting on my thigh,
hating the way my legs look and the stupid clothes I wear.
I wonder why the more I play and the harder I strum
the worse my hands feel the next day.

I don't want to succumb to a miserable existence.
I'm feeling less and less sad and more anxious.
It's a storm twisting and roaring in the darkest pit of my stomach
and leeching the life out of my brain and my thoughts are
so loud.

I can't feel love towards anybody who doesn't exist in my imagination and sigh when another friendship falls into the abyss of neglect.
My identity laughs as I stumble around this dark maze,
growing sick of this pointless game of hide and seek and cursing myself for running the batteries out of my dim flashlight.

Sometimes it's bearable.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and my scars don't burn, and my brain isn't screaming in my ear.
Sometimes the music I play sounds better, and sometimes the friends I talk to understand when I need my space and when I need to be loved.

Sometimes, I'm able to sigh in the crisp autumn breeze and feel comfortable in my own skin without having to write down my feelings in meaningless free-verse.